


Lost to Some Time

by 60sec400



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan has/had wings, Obi-Wan's wings get stolen, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Torture, Wingfic, every star wars fic should be tagged as found family tbf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/60sec400/pseuds/60sec400
Summary: He hadn’t realized he was too late until the time had already passed. You never realized until it was too late until the time had already gone. Qui-Gon lived in the present, always, but now he looked to the past, thinking he could’ve been faster, gotten there quicker, moved just a little bit more along. But those moments were gone, and he was back in the present, and the realization that he was too late had already passed.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 19
Kudos: 169





	1. Too Late

Qui-Gon was too late.

He hadn’t realized he was too late until the time had already passed. You never realized until it was too late until the time had already gone. Qui-Gon lived in the present, always, but now he looked to the past, thinking he could’ve been faster, gotten there quicker, moved just a little bit more along. But those moments were gone, and he was back in the present, and the realization that he was _too late_ had already passed.

His shadow cast a long glimpse into the room. Dark, the lights flickering above them, with Obi-Wan laying on the table in front of him, curled up with his knees drawn to his chest. He’s bare chested and sweaty. The lights flicker above him, casting his already pale skin in even paler light.

Qui-Gon moves forward, his steps growing surer as he moved forward toward his Padawan, toward his charge. It wasn’t until this moment that too late crossed his mind, when, as his angle changed, he got a good look at Obi-Wan’s back.

The boy, barely sixteen, lay on his side, arms wrapped tightly across his chest, knees pulled up. His eyes were squeezed shut and he breathed very slow and steady, clearly an attempt to keep calm on his part. It was impressive, Qui-Gon noted. He was most certainly impressed in his Padawan, but Qui-Gon wondered how much Obi-Wan attempting to keep calm and how much was shock.

Qui-Gon stopped tentatively over him, hands hovering over the boy, before he plunged forward and rested his right hand on Obi-Wan’s sweaty, coppery hair. The boy shivered, eyes blearily blinking open. Qui-Gon dropped to Obi-Wan’s eye level, brow furrowed in concern.

“Padawan,” he murmured, “Obi-Wan.”

“Qui–,” the boy whispered, his lips chapped and pale. Qui-Gon shushed him, brushing his hand over the copper hair again. He couldn’t hide the shake in it, not as the realization of _too late_ pushed itself further and further into his head.

“Just rest, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, “Close your eyes. You’re safe now.”

“M’ n’ pain,” the boy breathed, and despite Qui-Gon’s protestations, he began to sit up. He unwrapped his arms from his chest and pushed himself up into a position where he could drop from the desperately cold metal table. Qui-Gon’s hands hovered over top of him, but he was too afraid to force the boy back down into a lying position. Obi-Wan would have to go down willingly.

Qui-Gon pushed at the boy’s shoulders before he thought better of it, his hands dropping to rest on his arms. “You’re weak,” he argued, “You need to stay down.”

But he wouldn’t be able to carry Obi-Wan out, he thought, not with…

Qui-Gon grabbed his Padawan’s hands to steady him and hoped that he would be strong enough to stand. Obi-Wan slid off the table and directly into Qui-Gon’s chest, his knees buckling. Qui-Gon was quick to catch him, hands steadying the boy as best he could.

But Obi-Wan pitched forward. He was used to heavier weight on his back, used to something more there. He’d moved too fast. He didn’t know.

_He didn’t know._

“Obi-Wan–,” the master began, his voice still a soft murmur, as Obi-Wan dropped to his knees with a sharp gasp.

His eyes wide, pupils blown, Obi-Wan slowly turned his head to look behind him. The realization hits him full force and he lets out a choked sob that wretches itself involuntarily from his throat. His arms leave Qui-Gon and he reaches up to grab, to claw, at his shoulders. His sob becomes a solid shuddering heaving and grows increasingly more panicked as he claws at his shoulders, still staring at his empty back.

The large copper gold wings are gone.

“No!” he moans, his throat raw, “ _No!_ ” and his scream is shrill and sharp. He’s heaving between each wretched “no!”, panic overcoming him. Normally, Qui-Gon, as a master, would remind his Padawan to remain calm. But Obi-Wan has just had two limbs severed from his back. Qui-Gon himself is having trouble. The shrill sobbing coming from Obi-Wan as he doubles over leaves his back in plain view. There was two small little stumps where the wings sat between his shoulder blades, and Obi-Wan’s back is covered in blood.

He’s still clawing at his shoulders and Qui-Gon catches a few beads of red.

He dropped down with Obi-Wan the moment the realization had hit the Padawan. His hands find Obi-Wan’s and he slowly pulls them from the shoulders they’re dug into, rubbing soothing circles into the back of them. He’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what he can say.

So, he breathes out a small little breath, closes his eyes, and wraps the Force around them both.

Obi-Wan’s shrill cries become halting shudders, his eyes are squeezed shut and his shoulders shake. He’s weeping openly now, tears streaming down his face. And all the while, Qui-Gon wraps the Force around them best he can and rubs soothing circles into his Padawan’s hands.

The boy’s grief-stricken wailing subsides into shuddering heaving as he tries to catch his breath. And while Qui-Gon knows he shouldn’t, knows obvious examples of attachment are forbidden, he wants to wrap his arms around Obi-Wan and give him a hug. But he can’t.

Obi-Wan is clearly in pain, though, so Qui-Gon mutters soothing words under his breathe, still holding the boy’s hands, and tries desperately to calm him down. They need to leave. Obi-Wan clearly needs medical evaluation, he needs help, and Qui-Gon does not want to linger here any longer than he needs too. The table is slick with blood and Obi-Wan’s back looks wretched and mauled.

Finally, Obi-Wan’s breathing comes under control. He shudders and hiccups. But he lifts his face and gazes at Qui-Gon with soulless grey eyes, sad and worn.

“Can you stand?” the master asks, his voice still low. Obi-Wan, who has always been light from his hallow bones, leans against him just a little.

He lets out one–two–three shuddering breaths before he nods and pulls himself away. “Yes,” he says, voice raw.

“Don’t speak,” Qui-Gon commands, grabbing Obi-Wan’s hands as he pulls them both up. Obi-Wan is even lighter than before, without the added weight of the large wings that had… that…

“I can’t carry you out,” the master says, “But you can lean on me if you’d like.”

Obi-Wan nods. His hand rests on the sleeve of Qui-Gon’s, gripping it like a lifeline. Qui-Gon has both his and Obi-Wan’s lightsabers from when the boy had been captured and he see Obi-Wan’s eyes, still so grey, still so weary, flicker down to rest on it.

It’s slow going.

Whatever strength Obi-Wan had mustered to stand off that terrible table had not lasted through the ripping pain of having the realization of his loss. But Qui-Gon cannot blame him, would never voice it even if he did believe it. He’s so impressed with his Padawan. He knows Obi-Wan’s strength’s; he would have thought that this was beyond even him. But still, the boy carries forward, slow and steady.

They round the halls where Qui-Gon had rushed through. They’d been mostly abandoned when he’d come, and he does not ask where they have gone. He doubts Obi-Wan would even know. He’s tempted, though, to ask about the kidnappers. Before, he’d wondered why they would steal his Padawan.

But a room of trophies, and now the severed wings, leave Qui-Gon with the answer he didn’t realize he did not want.

Qui-Gon wants to know where they’d gone. If they’d said anything. But Obi-Wan had clearly just woken up when Qui-Gon had found him. He doubted they’d meant to leave the boy alive, but the appearance of the master had spurred them into running.

 _Cowards,_ he thinks.

A Master is harder to defeat than a Padawan. Even a Padawan as good as his own.

“Not too far now,” Qui-Gon whispers in assurance. Obi-Wan groans a little beneath him.

The teen, still somewhat lanky from puberty, is still so light and small. Especially compared to the towering form of his master. Before, they’d been almost on equal footing, with the large wings that spread out from his Padawan’s back. But now, pale and drawn, Obi-Wan is so small. Qui-Gon grips him harder, holding on.

They aren’t too far now, he hadn’t been lying, but they have to make their way up. They stumble past rooms and labs.

When they pass the trophy room Qui-Gon had stumbled into in his frantic searching, he clenches his eyes shut and tries not to image Obi-Wan’s wings within it’s walls.

He fails.

It’s endless before they make it to the lift, to where Qui-Gon knows freedom will lie.

“Stay strong,” he says, eyes flickering down to the two stubs on Obi-Wan’s back. They’ll probably have to be cut off. Removed entirely. The only thing Obi-Wan will be left with is large scars sliding down his back. The only reminder.

Obi-Wan looks human. His chest is a bit broader, and there is room to grow, and Qui-Gon knows his bones are hollow. He is light weight, immensely, but incredibly strong. Not dragged down by the large wings, Obi-Wan was quick and thimble. He was an excellent swordsman, although good luck convincing him of it.

_Obi-Wan, barely fourteen, throwing his lightsaber down on the ground in front of Qui-Gon._

It hadn’t been the same after that. There was always caution.

Qui-Gon knew he had a habit of never… explaining, never speaking when he should.

He gripped Obi-Wan, pulling him close. The boy, his little imp, would need all of Qui-Gon. Their lineage had never been good with attachment. He’d been so angry, so scared, so worried. He’d ripped through the halls of this terrible place, pushing any and all guards out of his way. Qui-Gon would need to be there for his Padawan, would need to guide him through this as a Master did.

Maybe their lineage had never been good with attachment. He should work on that. He had worked on that. But Qui-Gon would be damned if he’d let Obi-Wan suffer alone.

The boy was barely sixteen.

The doors to the lift open and Qui-Gon pulls Obi-Wan, gently, with him. They stumble toward the main foyer of the building, guards passed out on the floor. The boy’s eyes don’t even linger on them. He stares straight ahead. He barely looks as if he’s seeing.

Their ship sits just outside.

When they exit the ground hovel, the bright light nearly blinds them both. It’s sunny and warm, on this planet. A breeze brushes past them, teasing, and Obi-Wan shudders. Qui-Gon pulls him closer.

“Not too far, now,” he whispers, “The ship is just there.”

The ship is outfitted with a small med-bay, bacta, and minimal medical supplies. Qui-Gon doesn’t want the wounds to get infected, and he needs to get the blood cleaned off. The ramp to the ship is open, as Qui-Gon left it, and he only pauses briefly to see if he could sense any presence on board. He doesn’t want those crazed… whatever’s, with their trophy room, to have run on to ambush them.

But the ship is empty and so he leads Obi-Wan up the ramp. The boy groans with the change of level but remains mostly silent the rest of the way. He’s growing more and more weary. When they get to the med bay, he collapses, sitting, on the small bed. His shoulders are weighted down and his hands lay limp at his sides.

Qui-Gon keeps a hand on the boy’s, the other resting on his hair.

“Obi-Wan,” he says, “Look at me.”

Slowly, wearily, Obi-Wan lifts his face up to look at his Master. His eyes are still so dull. He looks like he’s in pain, and he most certainly is. Qui-Gon wishes he could ease it sooner.

“I’m going to get the ramp up and get us off this planet. Will you would be alright here, for the moment, while I do that?” he asks.

Obi-Wan’s lower lip trembles, but he gives Qui-Gon one small nod.

Qui-Gon smiles down at him, hand moving from Obi-Wan’s hair to his face. “I’ll be back.”

He leaves the room quickly.

It takes far too long for him to get the ramp up. It takes too long to lift the ship up from the ground and up past the stratosphere. It takes too long to push the coordinates into the navigator. Hyperdrive takes too long to power up. But finally, they’re going away from the awful planet. Qui-Gon’s hand simmers over the yoke of the ship before he slams his fist down into the arm rest of the seat.

He closes his eyes and acknowledges the anger and why it was there before he breaths and releases it to the Force.

He falls back into the pilot’s seat and sighs, deep and heavy. He runs a hand over his face, and he can feel the need to cry, but nothing comes. He needs to return to his Padawan. Obi-Wan needs him. He can’t dawdle.

Qui-Gon is half tempted for a moment to call the Council, but he’s never done that after a mission has ended so soon before and he has more pressing issues to worry about. Like the boy missing two limbs in the medbay.

He pulls himself from the chair and checks the navicomputer as fast as he reasonably can to ensure they’re on their way before he hurries off down the hall.

He finds Obi-Wan laying on his side, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m here,” he says aloud.

The boy’s eyes open.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” Qui-Gon says quickly. “Can you sit up?”

Obi-Wan, who does not speak, answers by sitting up, albeit shakily, and slowly.

Qui-Gon has grabbed cloth and bacta wipes and crosses around the side of the bed to Obi-Wan’s back. It’s a gruesome sight. They had had, at least, some semblance of… order to the cuts. The stumps are barely two inches thick from the back and still oozing blood. But the cuts were clean, not jagged. The bone juts out a bit further, sawed completely through. Averting his eyes, he refuses to look at them.

Qui-Gon gently rests the wipe near reddened skin as slow as he can. A whole shudder runs through Obi-Wan’s body, but he does not protest.

He makes quick work of scrubbing the blood away.

He goes through far too many wipes.

He has never wanted to see so much blood.

When he finishes, he lightly rests both of his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. The boy doesn’t turn toward him. “I’m going to put bacta, on the… wounds. It might feel uncomfortable.

Still, silence.

It prevails the room.

Qui-Gon makes quick work of that, too, and tries not to feel disgusted as he runs the bacta over the stumps, over the bleeding he’d managed to quell. Finally, he takes the wraps of gauze and lay them gently over top. When that’s done, he takes the wrap, tells Obi-Wan to lift his arms, and wraps it around his chest and back.

He can feel Obi-Wan wincing, can see how tense he is. His hands are clenched over the rim of the bed, knuckles white.

“I’m done,” he says finally. “Take these painkillers,” he hold up a bottle, passing it over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, “And rest. You need it.”

When Obi-Wan says nothing, when he doesn’t move, Qui-Gon frowns. He retracts the bottle and crosses around the bed to stand in front of the boy. Still, the boy doesn’t move. He stares ahead, straight, steady, eyes dark and unseeing.

“Why would they do this?” he says quietly. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Why would they take them from me?”

Qui-Gon opens his mouth. “I do not know.”

Obi-Wan’s right hand clenches into a tight fist and his eyes, still sad but so angry, narrow. “Why would they _do this_?” His voice cracks at the end and he lets out another shuddering, sobbing breath. Tears well up in his eyes and he squeezes them shut, hoping to keep everything in. Qui-Gon stands next to him, he rests the bottle on the bed, and then he wraps, slowly and carefully, his arms around the lower half of Obi-Wan’s back. The Padawan leans into him as sobs wrack his body, bringing his hand up to clutch at Qui-Gon’s chest.

Leaning his head into Obi-Wan’s hair, the two remain together.

When Obi-Wan has worn himself into a restful sleep, Qui-Gon heads back to the cockpit of the ship.

He comms directly to the Jedi Council.

The only members there are Yoda, Mace, and Plo.

They look at his hologram in clear surprise.

“Shocking, this is,” Yoda mutters, pointing his glimmer stick up at Qui-Gon.

But the troubled look on his face must prevail even through holo, and their calm expressions turn to worry.

“The mission?” Mace asks, because of course he does.

“A success and yet a failure,” Qui-Gon replies. “I found where the missing visitors went,” his voice falters. He’d never found the rest of the bodies. But the trophy room was proof enough.

“And yet, a failure, you say?” Yoda asks.

“They escaped. I never saw them.”

“Never saw them, you say. Your Padawan did, hmm?”

In a way. “Yes,” Qui-Gon says, “Have Master Che at the ready, when we land.”

He can’t sense their worry in the Force, he’s too far for that, but Yoda’s eyes narrow and Plo turns just a little to give Mace a cursory glance.

“In danger, you are? Unharmed, you appear.”

“Is Padawan Kenobi alright?”

“I’m unharmed,” Qui-Gon says freely. He cannot bring himself to voice Obi-Wan’s problem. He does not think he can say the words out loud.

They stole his wings.

It never comes.

“We’ll land in two days’ time,” Qui-Gon says instead, and then cuts the transmission short.

He drops his head into his hands.

He sighs.

Then, he turns to the front of the ship and stares out into hyperspace and wonders, for just a little too long, what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been too late. 


	2. Fever and Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan struggles, Qui-Gon needs rest, and fever and help are present.

Obi-Wan is still sleeping when he returns. Qui-Gon suspects it’s a combination of the painkillers he’d administered and weariness, the kind that seeped into the bones. He rests his hand against Obi-Wan’s short red hair, smiling meekly at the blond that had grown in under their time in the sun. The boy didn’t stir; not that he usually did, of course, but even now under Qui-Gon’s resting hand he did not move.

Removing it, Qui-Gon made himself round the small table and look at the boy’s back again.

He had, vaguely, memories of seeing a young Obi-Wan Kenobi, barely four, with wings hardly the length of his forearms stretching out from his back. Even from afar, they’d looked downy and soft. He wouldn’t be able to achieve shaky flight with them until he was almost nine, when they went through such a period of growth his eighth year that he was in and out of the Halls of Healing for months. He’d recounted this with some trepidation to Qui-Gon, who’d asked one day why exactly his apprentice hated going into those halls. Qui-Gon’s time on crèche duty made him think back to that small little thing with wings and then laugh.

“Smothering,” Obi-Wan said distastefully, in a quiet show of opinion.

Qui-Gon’s laughter had brought a smile to his apprentice’s face.

At sixteen, they’d spanned Obi-Wan’s height several times and had outgrown their downiness by years. The feathers had been copper gold, like his hair color, and the wings stretched so far out that for the first year or so into their very rocky start, Qui-Gon had had to constantly dodge them.

Despite his apprentice’s height, which was still above average for human’s his age, Obi-Wan had always appeared larger than life. When he splayed the full length of the wings before him, Obi-Wan had seemed invincible.

Perhaps, Qui-Gon should not have let himself be convinced of this lie. No man was invincible. Not Qui-Gon. And certainly not Obi-Wan.

He could barely stomach to look at the boys back. Because now that invincibility was gone, and his Padawan looked so small. The thing that had been so Obi-Wan was gone. The wings and their presence had always elicited joy from the boy’s friends, awe from strangers, and fear from their enemies should Obi-Wan draw them out, lightsaber blazing before him. Qui-Gon mourned their loss.

Things would change now. Obi-Wan would have to readjust how he moved, how he fought. He’d have to change how he lived, entirely. Unless he had the aid of a ship, Obi-Wan would never fly again. It was almost this loss that was the greatest, to Qui-Gon, and most certainly to Obi-Wan too.

The wraps around the wing stumps were slightly reddish, vaguely pink from the bacta. They’d have to change them soon. Minimize the risk of infection. Qui-Gon was no healer. When he checked the wrappings next time, he prayed that the skin wouldn’t be hot and redding.

Obi-Wan twitched in his sleep.

Did he dream of flight? Or did he dream of the horror on his back?

Qui-Gon drew himself away from the bandages, feeling a sickness rise in his throat, and turned back around the table to the front. Pulling a soft wool blanket from below the bed, he gently laid it across the boy’s legs and his front, careful not to agitate the wounds on the back.

His mind couldn’t help but recall the images of the bony stumps, feathers red but in the completely wrong way. It was the wrong red. In the language of the boy’s native planet, they had many words for red. Red for deep wine. Red for rust stains. Red for the sky in the evening. The leftover is red. But it’s the wrong red.

He purged the thoughts from his mind, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling away from the bed. He knew he shouldn’t dwell, but Qui-Gon could not escape the thought that if he had just kept better watch, or just found them a little faster, or ran just a bit quicker, Obi-Wan would have been spared.

Roughed up maybe. But spared.

He was alive, in the least.

Qui-Gon couldn’t ask for anything more. Except he could, quite adamantly, very much ask that Obi-Wan had not been harmed at all, that he would have remained whole. He lingered in the medbay for only a few moments, eyes staring hard on his Padawan, before he turned heel and stood in the hall.

Half-tempted to go to his bunk but unwilling to fall asleep should his Padawan need him, Qui-Gon turned toward the cockpit. He sat brusquely down in the chair and busied himself with the controls, with running diagnostic scans, with something to keep his mind off feathery, bloody stumps. It worked, for some time, but Qui-Gon’s thoughts lingered despite the busy work he’d given himself.

Even as the hours passed, he found himself dwelling more and more.

He needed to meditate.

Heading back out of the cockpit, Qui-Gon found the small refectory and dining space and sat down, legs folded beneath him. Breathing in, and then out, he settled himself amongst the Force. A torrent of darkness, of anger and frustration, of wistfulness, rose up to meet him. He needed to acknowledge it, to see where it came from, and to let it go.

Anger, for his Padawan. Anger at himself for not moving fast enough, for not being more watchful, for those in the universe who wished and took that which was not theirs.

Frustration greeted him next. Frustration at himself. Frustration at being helpless, of not knowing what to do, of how to help. He asked the Force, there, for guidance.

And next, the wistfulness. This was not his. Wrapped up in the Force, his bond with his Padawan glowed brightly of copper and gold, shimmering in Qui-Gon’s mind as a thick tendril of light that reached beyond his consciousness. Qui-Gon searched for the origin of the emotion, carefully tugging at the bond, pulling it closer and wrapping it in something comforting, warm. Wistfulness for a memory, it seemed. Longing for something that would never be again.

Qui-Gon felt the phantom breathe of air, cold but comforting, rushing past his face. It filled up his breathe with eagerness and a grin stretched wide across his face. A memory. A dream. Wind rushed past him. And then, like a brush of warmth in the cold air of winter, the moment was gone.

Qui-Gon did not want to rip this away from his Padawan. It was too soon, and not even a Jedi could not be affected by what had been inflicted upon him. He would deal with that last; and if he didn’t enjoy this memory, this experience that he had never known, even just a little, well, then he would be a liar.

The anger, as righteous and as understandable as it were, was the first to go. Qui-Gon could not dwell on the anger any longer than he wished he could have been faster. Perhaps that frustration was tinged with regret. But the anger was for his Padawan. And Obi-Wan did not need anger, he needed understanding. The anger would serve neither Obi-Wan nor Qui-Gon. It would not return Obi-Wan’s wings and it would not find the culprits for him. He knew where it came from, but it would not control him. He would not let it. Qui-Gon acknowledged the rightful anger and then he wrapped it up in the Force and breathed it out. It would take a little more time, perhaps, but for now it had been dealt with.

Next the frustration with regret, and then with sorrow. What’s done is done, he thought, and he could no more make himself faster now then he could’ve in the past. A thousand factors could’ve kept him at bay and been out of his control, and he would have been none the wiser and thinking it was him all along. Dwelling on the what if could not serve the present situation any more it could the future.

But Qui-Gon needed guidance. With Obi-Wan. With the present here and now. How did he help? How did he console? He had a vague clue about the whole picture. Did he admit to Obi-Wan, a boy barely sixteen, that his wings had been stolen as treasures? As trophies?

Please, he begged the Force, tell me what to do.

The Force hummed.

Patience and mindfulness.

Qui-Gon sighed. As he’d suspected.

He gripped the frustration, wrapped it in the Force, and let it go best he could.

And then the wistfulness of the memory that was not his. That had never been his. And, sadly and mournfully, that would never be Obi-Wan’s again. Separating himself from his apprentice, Qui-Gon pushed the memory away. It was not his to let go. When the time came, when his reality was accepted, Obi-Wan would do that himself.

Qui-Gon pulls himself out of the force with a soft gasp and his back curls outward. Weariness sets on his shoulders and they drop, and he blinks his eyes and looks around. He might’ve done it too fast, pulling himself from the Force, but he pushes through it and stands up and stretches. By the chrono on the wall, hours have passed.

Qui-Gon ignores the rumbling in his stomach and heads off down to the medbay.

The door slides open with the soft hiss and he’s greeted with the view of Obi-Wan, awake, shoulders hunched forward as he leans on his knees.

The boy barely straightens, but his eyes flicker up to Qui-Gon’s.

“Master,” he rasps.

“I see you’ve made it far,” Qui-Gon tries to tease. Mindfulness; ah. The joke falls flat when Obi-Wan does not react. “Do you need me to change the bandages?” They’re due to be changed, of course, and Qui-Gon knows this.

Obi-Wan nods. And Force, he’s so small. He’s less than half his space and presence and weary and tired and Qui-Gon doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Itches,” Obi-Wan says quietly, one hand moving from his chin to touch his own shoulder. He still sounds so sad. It’s been hardly a day, less than any time at all, and Qui-Gon wonders when the sadness will be gone.

“Of course,” he says, “Let us change them.” He doesn’t want to. He would never say the words allowed, but Qui-Gon does not want to change them. He doesn’t want to pull back the pink bandages wrapped around Obi-Wan’s back and torso and see those stumps, those memories, sticking out from his back and flushed red with irritated skin. Qui-Gon still couldn’t get the images out of his head. He would not be done looking at them, in his mind and in reality, for some time.

He was almost grateful, and though he knew it was so much worse to have lived it, that his Padawan could not see the damage. He’d curled his head back and seen the absence of the wings the day before, maybe even seen the bony-bloody tip of what was left, but he did not _see._

Moving forward toward the bed, Qui-Gon rested his hands on the boy’s chin. Obi-Wan looked up at him wearily, brows furrowed up and tense.

“But how are you feeling?” Qui-Gon asks, giving a semblance of normal. “How did you rest?” He dropped his hands and stepped back, keeping eye contact.

Obi-Wan shook his head, pulling up his shoulders in a further hunch. “Well enough,” he says quietly, voice soft, “I dreamt.”

I know, Qui-Gon thought, but did not say. A rush of a memory of air pushing past him grips Qui-Gon’s mind.

Busying himself with gathering what he’d need, silence dropped around them. It was neither the comfortable silence of two people alone but together nor the silence of awkwardness and unspoken words. It hung in between, unusual. Not unlike the silence of the _after_ of Melida/Daan. It took a while for them to be used to one another again. Would it be like this now, too? Qui-Gon didn’t know. But, at least, they had done it before. They could do it again.

Of this, Qui-Gon had no doubt.

“Master?” Obi-Wan asks as Qui-Gon set the bacta down next to him.

Qui-Gon hums.

“I am… struggling,” the boy admits, voice still so soft. He looks up at Qui-Gon through thick lashes. His brow is in a perpetual state of been turned up; it makes him look older, sadder, wearier.

Qui-Gon does not falter. “With what, might I ask?”

“I still…,” Obi-Wan bites his lip and looks away again, “I still do not understand the why, Master.”

Qui-Gon does falter now. He stills just a moment before he carries forward and puts more gauze on the bed. Obi-Wan’s eyes follow his movements. Turning toward him, Qui-Gon rests his hands on his shoulders. “I do not think in less than a day, such an answer would be clear to anyone.” Although, Qui-Gon has his suspicions.

“I think,” he continues, “that your only worry should be feeling better.”

Obi-Wan’s hand on the bed grips the white cloth tight. “How?” he says low, “How can I only worry about–?”

Moving one hand from shoulder to chin, Qui-Gon quiets him. “You’re right,” he admits, “But I do not expect you to have dealt with that in less than a day, Padawan. You will worry of this, of that I have no doubt, but to be rid of it so soon would be a miracle.”

Obi-Wan’s sad eyes turn hauntingly horrified and he pulls away, a little too quickly, from Qui-Gon’s hand. “Am I to hold onto this anger then?”

“No,” Qui-Gon says quickly, “But perhaps turning your attentions elsewhere until you are ready to deal with your anger would serve you best. You cannot dwell, you cannot fester or feed it, but you can acknowledge it only when you are ready. When you feel best too. When it would serve you best.”

The Force sings in Something Very Good, right then, and Qui-Gon feels like he made an important discovery he should have long ago.

“I am… allowed… anger?” Obi-Wan asks.

“If you were not angry, I would be worried,” Qui-Gon says truthfully. “We are not senseless or emotionless. We feel things as any other being would. And we have been given a gift, a power, by the Force. We cannot be controlled by our feelings, cannot be led by them. To do so is dangerous. But it does not mean that we do not have them. Being controlled is not the same as having.”

Obi-Wan’s hunched shoulders drop as if a great weight have been lifted on them. Qui-Gon feels as though he had said something right, done something _good,_ even if he isn’t quite sure what.

“Right,” Obi-Wan breaths. “Alright.”

The silence is not fixed now, it isn’t wholly as it was before, but it is better. And it’s all Qui-Gon can ask for right now.

When he rounds around the table to Obi-Wan’s exposed back, he hesitates. “Are you ready?”

“I suppose.”

He accepts that. He begins unwrapping slowly. Obi-Wan’s arms shake from holding them above his head as Qui-Gon unwraps. More than once they have to pause and let him rest. Finally, Qui-Gon gets to the end and peels the wrap away from the stumps. The bacta gauze is sticky, and the wound had kept bleeding, however sluggishly, leaving the area thick with a pink and white paste. Qui-Gon swallows as he grabs several sterile wipes to clean the mess up, as gently as he can.

But the wound, still fresh, is tender. Obi-Wan winces with every small touch and Qui-Gon works as efficiently and as quickly as he can. When Qui-Gon begins to clean the left-over feathers, Obi-Wan pulls forward and hunches again with a sharp and pained hiss.

“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon says quickly. “I didn’t–.”

“It’s fine,” Obi-Wan says through gritted teeth, “It’s fine, just… please hurry.” His voice falls to a whisper. “It hurts, Master.”

“I know,” the master replies, “I know, I’m sorry.”

He is sorry. But what else can Qui-Gon do now but ease what little pain he can?

He cleans the remaining feathers best he can and Obi-Wan does his best to keep from making any movement. When they’re clean, Qui-Gon slathers on more bacta and does his best to wrap the remains again. Obi-Wan’s arms shake and drop limp when Qui-Gon has finished.

As he cleans up, Obi-Wan turns to face him fully. His eyes still look tired, as if the restful sleep he’d gotten hadn’t done him any good, and there are deep bags under his eyes. He’d kept his head to the ground, facing the floor, and only now Qui-Gon can get a decent look.

“How far until we reach Coruscant?”

Qui-Gon has nearly finished cleaning everything up. He searches his apprentice’s face, but it’s the same tired and weary face he’s been looking at since he found him. “Not too long, now, another day. Perhaps.”

“I look forward to it,” Obi-Wan says stiffly. He moves stiff too. His muscles and body must be aching. There’s suddenly a lot less they don’t have to hold up. And no amount of easing his shoulders to drop can keep the tenseness form them. “To home,” he says after a pause.

“I’m eager to have you back there as well,” Qui-Gon says.

They fall into silence. Better than before but not the same. Qui-Gon does not know what to say. There’s a gaping hole in the room, an obvious one that had, for some part, been addressed, but not fully. Qui-Gon wants to ease the worry and fear and tiredness from Obi-Wan’s face, from his body. He’s reminded of when Obi-Wan was a boy, back before Melida/Daan, back when he’d just become Qui-Gon apprentice.

He’d been so small. Tiny. A child. A child in his care. Still a child in his care. Not unlike the others before him and meant to be in just the same way, even if he’d denied it to Sith Hells and back. It feels like so long ago, now. Had it only been three years?

Obi-Wan breathes quietly next to him, staring at the floor with a lost look in his eyes. He’s taller now, much taller. And now smaller than he ever had been before. His face still has baby fat, but it’s nearly cleared to a strong jawline and a kind face. Qui-Gon wants to… well. Attachment could not be said to be a problem, in their lineage.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Obi-Wan admits out loud, “But I don’t think I want to be awake either.”

“Meditation?” Qui-Gon offers, if only because he knows it would help if Obi-Wan so chose to let it.

The boy hesitates, and shrugs his shoulders as best he can, and then looks away from Qui-Gon. He turns his head slightly in the other direction.

“What are you thinking?”

“That I don’t want to sleep. I’m tired of sleeping.”

Qui-Gon would have huffed a laugh if Obi-Wan wasn’t so serious. He decides, well, it isn’t humoring. But he wants to indulge the chance to talk, if only because Qui-Gon feels this is important. It is. It is important. He needs to remove his feelings.

But he can’t. So, he sits down next to Obi-Wan on the bed, who is gripping the edges so tight, and peels one of the hands from the side and holds it in his, rubbing the knuckles over with his thumb like he had back in the lab.

Obi-Wan turns his head back toward Qui-Gon.

“Why don’t you want to sleep?” Qui-Gon asks.

The boy leans toward him, their shoulders brushing against each other until Obi-Wan commits and, in a display of affection that was unusual and out of character, he rests his head on Qui-Gon’s shoulder. As a boy, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have dared. He is a boy still, but he’s a tired and weary one. A sad one. One who wants comfort.

Obi-Wan, his little imp, even if Qui-Gon would never dare say it.

“If I sleep, I dream,” Obi-Wan says, sounding wistful, “And I don’t think I can bare it, Master.”

“Do you want me to stay, then, and keep you company?”

Obi-Wan hesitates. He pulls himself from Qui-Gon’s shoulder and it’s left feeling cold. The momentary drop of walls is gone and Obi-Wan, so eager to listen and revel in his master, is back. The Padawan who jokes but never crosses a line. Who is such a good apprentice. Qui-Gon did not realize the loss until it’s gone; Obi-Wan would not seek comfort any longer. He rarely did.

“No,” he whispers, “I’ll be alright, Master. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

Qui-Gon doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s still rubbing Obi-Wan’s knuckles. “It’s just the two of us on the ship,” he says, “I can stay.”

“I’m alright, Master.”

Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps he is, for now. Qui-Gon hesitates and then pulls his hand away. Obi-Wan’s hand curls into a fist, gripping the stark white sheet of the bed. He wants to ask but he doesn’t want to push. Obi-Wan’s presence in the force is tightly wrung around his mind and leaves little to interpretation. Qui-Gon doesn’t want to be where he is not wanted.

“I’ll be… well, you know where to find me.”

“Always,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll try and meditate.”

Qui-Gon stands and rests a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and then the back of his neck. The boy looks up at him. “Good. It’ll do you some good.”

“Yes, master.”

Qui-Gon leaves him there. His motivation of needing to be there had fallen; he trusted his Padawan. If the boy insisted that he did not need Qui-Gon there, then Qui-Gon would give him space. It was not his place to push.

Outside the medbay, his resolve fell. The boy was in his care. Perhaps he should’ve insisted he stay. He could’ve made any argument to remain. That Obi-Wan’s bandages might need to change. That he might need food or water.

Food or water. Had he eaten? No, he’d been sleeping. And now he didn’t want to sleep, which mean he would be awake and doing… well, whatever it was he wanted to do that didn’t involve Qui-Gon. Like meditating.

He’d make food.

The refectory was useless; the only things there were ration bars and hydropods for hydration. He gathered several of both up and made his way back to the medbay. Obi-Wan had moved to the floor. His robes and clothing were wrapped around his waist and his braid was still scraggly and barely held together. He was sweating, brow scrunched in frustration, and his body was tight like a coil.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon breathes.

The boy’s face drops and his eyes open. Expecting an onslaught of emotion in the force, the master braced himself but felt nothing more than a brush of _something_ against his mind. Too quick to identify, Qui-Gon let it go and moved forward to kneel before his apprentice and hold out the ration bar.

“You need to eat.”

Obi-Wan reaches for the bar with a silent thank you in his eyes and munched quietly. “Hurts to move,” he said after a few minutes.

“That’s expected,” Qui-Gon says, “It will take a while before you’re… adjusted.”

“Katas? Ataru?” Obi-Wan says, “I’ll be useless. I’ll have to relearn everything.”

“Good then, that I have you training in the basics as I do. You’ll gain the skills back in no time. You have not lost them. You already have them, Padawan, it’s just a matter of letting your body remember.”

“How can it?” the boy finally snaps, “When most of it is gone?”

Their eyes meet. “Obi–.”

“I want to sleep now,” he says, pushing himself off the floor. Qui-Gon goes to help him but Obi-Wan pushes his hand away and he grips the bed for leverage. He leans on it with his elbow, shoulders and back still tight and drawn, and heaves himself up to his feet. He pants on the edge, leaning over his crooked arm on the bed, and then stands straight.

He then turns and collapses on the bed with a loud thump. His face is pale, and his knuckles are white as he holds onto the bed, leg in front of him and straight out, toes up and heels digging into the ground. He’s sweating heavily.

“Obi-Wan–.”

“I want to sleep,” the boy grits out, but his voice is calmer than before, “Please, Master.”

Qui-Gon hesitates and then nods. Then, for the second time that day, leaves his Padawan alone.

* * *

Qui-Gon gives his codes to the Temple and they’re assigned a hanger to take the ship. Obi-Wan is still resting in the medbay. He’d fallen into a restless sleep. A fever had overtaken him in the time between and left him hot and sticky, Qui-Gon doing his best to ease his Padawan’s pain through the force. It didn’t do much good. The boy wasn’t fighting him, but he wasn’t receptive to Qui-Gon’s presence.

There’d been something about that dream of the rushing air in his face that had left the master wanting more. But the dream had not reemerged in Qui-Gon’s mind, neither actively nor passively as he meditated in the meantime. Regardless, they were at the temple now. Obi-Wan would be in better care. Finally, Qui-Gon felt as if they were safe.

The whole time, he’d been tense. He knew that there was no more danger. He knew it. But until Obi-Wan was home? Well, he finally released that tension into the force.

He landed the ship in the hanger and sees Mace, Plo, Vokara, and Master Yoda all standing waiting for him. The ship is cleared and Qui-Gon lets the ramp fall. Vokara is the first to meet him as he walks down. Her brow is furrowed, and she stalks straight up to him. He’s taller than her otherwise, but now on the uneven ground of the ramp, he almost looms.

“Well?” she asks. “My presence was requested.” She peers around him and if it were possible, her frown would have grown deeper, “Where is your Padawan?”

“Asking this question, myself, I am,” Yoda remarks, stick cracking against the floor as he walks toward the pair. He’s followed closely by Plo and Mace. Qui-Gon finds himself almost irritated. Before, over the holo, he’d still been so worried. And he still was. But now… he tries to push the irritation away. It doesn’t work though but there are other things to worry about.

Vokara goes to move around him but he grips her arm tight to stop her. Blue eyes meet his.

“They took them,” he says, barely a whisper. Somehow, it’s heard over the noise of the hanger. He feels a tenseness settle over him again. Will it not leave? Perhaps he should take his own advice.

It’s Mace who speaks. “Took… what?”

Qui-Gon hadn’t actually been able to say it. The whole time, they’d avoided it. He’d thought it, seen it, dwelled on it, and then released it. But not once had he said the words. Obi-Wan had only referred to it in passing, alluding to the missing pieces but never saying the words outright. He feels nervous now. Nervous and stressed all over again. The stress that had been present in himself, that he’d attempted to bury, when he had been running for Obi-Wan reemerged almost fully.

“His wings,” Qui-Gon says.

Vokara pauses barely a moment before she wretches her arm from his grip and runs up the ramp, disappearing over the edge. An arm lands on his shoulder and Qui-Gon realizes he’s being steadied. Mace appears then and Plo is right behind him.

“The mission,” Qui-Gon finds himself saying, “We went to see where the missing… where the people were disappearing too.”

“You can give your mission report later,” Mace says.

“Later, yes,” Yoda mutters below them, “Help, your Padawan does need.” The old master’s face is tight with worry, mouth pulled into a deep frown.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed, “I tried to wrap–.”

Vokara appears at the top of the ramp. Her blue face was pale, and she looked almost _afraid_ , brows scrunched together. Concerned and afraid. Qui-Gon relates. “I’ll need a stretcher and…,” she glances back in the ship, “Help, mostly. Plo?”

The Kel Dor Jedi steps around them and up the ramp toward the healer and they both disappear around the corner. 

“I tried to help,” Qui-Gon says as he looks back at Mace, then down at Master Yoda. “My knowledge of healing is limited.”

“Awake, he is?”

“He’s been sleeping, and I believe fever has taken him. I’m concerned about infection.” 

“And you? Are you well?”

Qui-Gon is still being held up by Mace. “Physically, I am fine,” he replies. He glances away, back down the ramp and toward the rest of the busy hanger. “I’ll admit that I have been unsettled.”

“Rest, you need,” Master Yoda says.

Qui-Gon glances down at the old master and frowns. “He needs me more than I need rest.”

“Concern for your Padawan, I appreciate in you. But rest does you both good.”

“He’ll need–.”

“He clearly needs medical attention, which he’s getting now that he’s at the temple,” Mace said sternly, but not unkindly, “You clearly need a moment to rest. Maybe not physically, but mentally.” He glanced up the ramp of the ship. “Vokara will take care of him. The _healers_ will take care of him, Qui-Gon.”

“Go rest,” Mace insisted, tugging on the master’s arm as he took a step down the ramp. “You know he’s in safe hands.”

Qui-Gon does not say that Obi-Wan had been in safe hands on their mission and still the outcome had been… unfavorable. He closes his eyes and breaths, remembering that he was supposed to have released his feelings into the force. His shoulders drop and he takes a step down the ramp toward his friend.

“I know.”

“Rest, then,” Yoda says with finality. “Remain with your Padawan, I will.”

“Thank you,” Qui-Gon mutters.

Yoda gives him a small, final nod. Mace’s hand still grips his arm and he’s guided down the ramp. Rest will be good, he thinks, rest will clear his head. He’s worried. He’d thought he was fine– he’d even tried to joke with his Padawan. But the worst was not yet over. It would not be, for a long time. Obi-Wan would need time to recover. To relearn.

But he’d done it before. And, well, Obi-Wan was nothing if not determined.

He steps off the ramp and into the rest of the hanger. He can’t think much about it now. He can’t feel as if he’s abandoning his boy. He isn’t. He’s getting rest for them both. He’s clearing his head for the both of them. When Obi-Wan struggles, as Qui-Gon knows he will inevitably do, his master will be the clear, cool voice next to him.

Yes. Rest would do him well.


End file.
